


From the Beginning

by PandoraCulpa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraCulpa/pseuds/PandoraCulpa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Potter always got what he wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the NASF II Challenge in 2005. Inspired by the song "From the Beginning" by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. The opening italicized lines are quotes from that song.

_Whatever was done is done  
I just can't recall  
It doesn't matter at all  
  
You see it's all clear,  
you were meant to be here  
from the beginning_  
  
  
Potter always got what he wanted.  
  
Draco mused on that as he dressed, reflecting that it wasn’t the fact that Potter got what he wanted that rankled- he himself generally got what he wanted, and saw no issue with  _that_  whatsoever. It was more that he got whatever he wanted, without any effort at all, and that precious Potter’s wishes superceded anyone else’s, his own included.  
  
Take today, for instance. A lovely day, and one that he would far preferred to have spent overseeing the work still needed on the Manor, or perhaps working out the complicated instructions that Severus had sent him for a few potions of dubious legality. Old habits died hard; he didn’t intend to use any of them, but Draco had been raised to always keep his options open. Not that it mattered today. Today was no longer his to spend as he would, not when he was being forced to attend to Potter regardless of the imminent fine afternoon.  
  
Stepping back from the mirror, he admired the reflection that it gave back to him. Dress robes of winter white, nearly the exact color of his platinum hair, swept down to expose the tops of his soft, gray suede boots. A deep green cloak, nearly black, and embroidered with undulating silver dragons across the hem was tossed casually over his shoulder, and a pair of mouse-skin gloves that matched his boots were tucked into the silver belt at his waist. He didn’t wear a hat, defying the current fashion trends, and instead had pulled his pale hair back into a short tail at the nape of his neck, fastening it with a cunning silver clasp in the shape of another serpent. The young man struck a pose, nodding at his reflection in satisfaction.  
  
Maybe it was Potter’s day, but he’d be damned if he’d be outshone by the young hero.  
  


~*~*~

  


Draco’s lip curled slightly, a sneer rising unbidden as he shuffled forward a step. Pulling his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders, he straightened his back and tried to forget about the crush of commoners that surrounded him, all jostling and queuing in a most undignified manner. Not even his time at Hogwarts had rid him of his aversion to crowds, nor his distaste for mingling with the lower social classes. Oh, he’d seen the light, so to speak, unlike so many of his Slytherin associates, but he’d never quite been able to bring himself to embrace the touchy-feely inclusiveness that Dumbledore espoused. There were simply too many people who failed, in his estimation, to rise above the crude influences of Muggle culture, and who subsequently abandoned the best part of their heritage.

Of course, what was heritage to the likes of these? He lifted a pale brow, glancing over at an older wizard who was dressed in outdated red dress robes, and sporting a Rolex on one wrist. Beside the wizard, an elderly witch was dressed entirely in Muggle garb, which looked faintly ridiculous once she added the tall peaked hat and crushed beercan Portkey to the ensemble. No sense of presence whatsoever; they were all hopelessly diluted by Dumbledore and Potter’s lovey-dovey idealism. No idea that class and status were meant to be earned and cherished, rather than tossed aside as archaic and narrow-minded. Proof stood among them- the pureblooded scion of a noble House who stood out like a swan amidst ravens in the crowd of rabble that had gathered outside the walls of the castle.

Hogwarts had never seen a gathering like this before. The crowds stretched almost from the train station in Hogsmeade all the way up to the steps of the Great Hall and then within. All for Potter. Flicking an imaginary speck of dirt from the sleeve of his robes, Draco sighed dramatically, feeling quite put out. Despite all that he knew, and all that he had seen, he still couldn’t help but feel that Potter the Perfect had achieved a degree of glory and adulation of which he was quite unworthy.

_I expect he would take pleasure in knowing that I was forced to stand in a dismally slow queue, being shoved about by the lowest class of persons. Part of his directive, no doubt. Humiliate the Slytherin, degrade the pureblooded. He never did accept that a life of privilege is an entitlement to a Malfoy._

Finally the line began moving slowly once more and Draco followed silently, wrapped up in his own bitter musings.

~*~*~

  


After nearly an hour of queuing through the winding corridors of the castle, Draco finally came to a huge set of gilt doors that he was certain he’d never seen in all his time at the school. They were propped open, and several ghosts hovered like an ethereal honor guard alongside it, occasionally speaking with great solemnity to people standing in the queue. Draco ignored them, although he did give the Bloody Baron a curt nod which was returned just as sharply. With his task so near to completion, he wasn’t about to start up a useless conversation that would serve only to delay the inevitable.

Stepping around an old witch who had stopped to chat with the Gray Lady, Draco slipped into the great room beyond the doors to take his turn, his eyes darting greedily as they took in his sumptuous surroundings. The room was huge, easily large enough to accommodate a much larger crowd than was currently within it, and decorated with rich furnishings that would have been at home in any affluent estate. Granger and her insufferable prat of a boyfriend, the Weasel, were both perched on a loveseat upholstered in deep claret velvet, and he snickered to himself as he took in Weasley’s deeply disturbed expression. That chair was probably worth more than everything in his home, and from the look on his face, he knew it too. Ron’s deep discomfort almost made the trip worthwhile in and of itself; Merlin knows the Muggle lover had been feeling rather full of himself of late.

The Gryffindor Know-It-All noticed that he was there, and rose to greet him, her face studiously bland. “Draco,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

He wanted to sneer at her, but settled instead for a disparaging sniff. “It wasn’t my choice for today, but who am I to second guess Potter’s wishes?” he replied in a cool voice. “Although I must say, I’m surprised that he wanted me here.”

Weasley was eyeing him with suspicion and no small amount of enmity, but Granger seemed unaware of his animus. She nodded toward a raised dais at the far end of the room, draped in a gorgeous red and gold brocade. “Go ahead,” she insisted. “Better to do it now, when there’s no one else up there.”

Privately Draco agreed, although not for the same reasons she had. One on one, the way it ought to have been, way back when he had first met the Muggle-raised young wizard who was so new to the world of magic. He’d have his time with Potter, and then he’d be gone, back to the Manor. And then, just maybe, he’d be done with Mr. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and all the various ways in which he’d upset Draco’s carefully constructed world. With a nod of his head to Granger, and a devilish smirk for the Weasel (he didn’t think he’d ever be above tweaking the red-haired young man when given an opportunity) he strode away from them and across the room to the ornate dais.

He approached the plinth with a tight feeling in his chest, an unexpected onslaught of trepidation slowing his feet and infuriating him. A Malfoy, nervous? Nervous about standing before a wizard of diluted blood and no family to speak of? Potter may have become a man of influence, but he had no real power any longer, and Draco savagely reminded himself of the fact as he stepped up to the dais.

The proud pureblood stood silent for a long minute, gazing at the face of the person who had been his nemesis for years. The boy who had borne the brunt of his hatred throughout school, and who had ultimately saved him, as he had saved all of the wizarding world. He studied the trademark lightning bolt scar, and the lines around the dark-haired wizard’s eyes that he had never really noticed before. He noticed the exhaustion that clung to the boy-hero’s face, evident even in the slack expression, and in spite of himself, Draco felt a little remorse.

“Well,” he finally drawled, “I suppose you’ve had the last word, after all. You were right, and I was wrong; does it make you feel any better now that I’ve admitted it?”

Silence answered, as Draco had expected, and he ignored how the admission rankled as he continued. “And now, here you are, as you were meant to be all along. And here I am as well, so far from where I had thought to be at this point in my life that… well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose. Between your lot and mine, I’ll take mine any day.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, and noticed that several people seemed to be moving his direction again, coming up to see Potter, and he turned back to the young wizard with a sigh.

“I suppose that I’m sorry,” he snapped. “I hope that makes you happy, because you won’t get any more than that from me. You may be the hero of the world, but you still wrecked mine. I’m only thankful that I’m still alive, and we both know who I can really thank for that.”

Footsteps scuffled behind him, and Draco threw his cloak back to billow dramatically as he stalked away from the dais and the body laid out atop it. “Goodbye, Potter,” he said coolly. “Congratulations on your destiny.”

And then he was heading back to the Manor and his obligations, to the remnants of the estate so ravaged by the war, and the life that a hero’s death had ensured him.


End file.
